


Wreckage Where It's Blown

by TheDragonofHouseMormont



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Post-Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, Whouffaldi Week 2016, a happy ending if you adjust your definition of happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDragonofHouseMormont/pseuds/TheDragonofHouseMormont
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entropy in action.  They are the eye of the storm, unchanging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wreckage Where It's Blown

**Author's Note:**

> Day seven, ‘i do’, running, lips.

_Why don't we just fly away somewhere?_  

They started running and they'll never stop.  This was always going to happen, they're just speeding up the process.  Hand in hand, their footsteps never falter.  No pause for breath, she doesn't need it anymore and he rarely does. 

When they stand still long enough, the lights growing dim around them until there are only stars, she feels like, instead of air, she's breathing in stardust, breathing in the universe itself.  Every leaf, every bone fragment caught in the whirlwind around them. 

The trees lean away from them where they walk, the buildings crumble as if bowing.  They've heard the whispers.   _Gods of destruction,_ they've been called.  They are not gods, but with the power to destroy the universe at their fingertips, they understand how they can be mistaken as such. 

There are other names; the Valeyard, the Vessel of the Final Darkness.  It was never going to be just him, she would never have stood for it.  The Hybrid.  They do everything together. 

The universe was always going to end, they're just speeding up the process. 

Lips on skin, she swears she can feel Time flowing through them, burning bright orange like the stars above them.  Their fire is warm but it can no longer singe her skin.  She is the black hole coming to devour them. 

There is something in the two of them, something that feels new but has always been there, waiting.  It isn't anger or desperation, it's something she can't put a name to.  It's a hunger that isn't hollow, it's a blanket wrapped around her shoulders that she cannot see, a mist that speaks to her as she passes through it.  It's freedom like she's never known, a weight lifted, a promise, a glow inside her.  As her hands trace a path along his spine, the starlight drifts down and tints them red, like they are covered in blood.  It warms her. 

Sometimes she can't remember the difference between ash and snow, but he is always there to remind her. 

They don’t know what will happen _after._ Will there be an after?  There won't be.  There will be, but time won't exist there, the word 'after' won't apply.  It's all conjecture.  She holds onto memories like collecting faces, he sketches them, the menagerie of people they meet kept in a book clutched tightly so it won't fall through the cracks. 

They run through the rubble, the vines growing determinedly along it.  Through trees and the orange glow, fading slowly.  They stand still in a breeze.  "Do you still want this?" he asks. 

She looks around at the state of things surrounding them.  Entropy in action.  They are the eye of the storm, unchanging.  Her answer is always the same.  "I do." 

"I do," he whispers with a smile as he embraces her.  His hand in the hair at the back of her head, bringing her to him.  They kiss, the collapse around them like bells. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write something like this for a while, but I thought it would be too dark. Yet, in the past few days I have seen a photset and a gifset to Neil Gaiman's Dark Sonnet (which is where the title is from) so perhaps it isn't too dark after all.


End file.
